


Fire on the Mountain

by Cirth



Series: Canary-Yellow Cape [4]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jason is a good bro, Past Rape/Non-con, Sex Slavery, There is Talking, bruce is trying really hard okay, dick is...tired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:28:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23171713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cirth/pseuds/Cirth
Summary: Dick doesn't want anyone to know about the debacle with Tarantula. It's too bad that's not how his life is deciding to go.Or: Jason and Dick end up on the same case. It spirals from there.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd
Series: Canary-Yellow Cape [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571497
Comments: 100
Kudos: 876





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read as a standalone story, though it's better if you do read the previous fic in the series. (Or: look, it's the sequel I said I wouldn't write.) 
> 
> For those of you who would rather just get a run-down of past events: Black Mask finds out about Tarantula and releases her from prison as an act of revenge against Dick. Jason is there for the shitshow, but no one else knows. 
> 
> Thanks to pentapus for the beta!

So. "This takes me back," says Dick.

Jason pulls a pen drive from the computer and tucks it into his pocket. He is resting one hip against the console, casual. "I'm just transferring some old intel for records. He's paying me."

Bruce's expression does not change, but his eyes are both long-suffering and fond. There is a plate scattered with cookie crumbs on a table, and Dick knows it was Jason who had eaten them.

He remembers that summer, in the murky swirls of his late teens, when he visited and Jason was swinging his matchstick legs from a stool, guzzling a cucumber sandwich, with Bruce furtively watching. Jason liked cucumber sandwiches any which way, and Dick didn't like them at all, and he remembers Alfred saying, At least someone appreciates my sandwiches. Dick couldn't find it in him to be even a little resentful.

(He'd taken Jason out for ice cream later, bought him a peanut butter and chocolate monstrosity that was so thick the plastic spoon broke when Jason dug into it. Dick took a butter pecan for himself and said I know, I'm Old People, and Jason looked confused. They rode back at one in the morning on Dick's bike, Jason whooping with glee and clinging to his waist.

Usually Bruce would give a lecture about refined sugar and performance but he thanked Dick and Dick said I'd like to hang out with him more often, and meant it, and got busy, and then Jason's face was staring out next to Status: Deceased on the Titans computer.)

Dick walks over and places his hands on the back of Bruce's chair. "Paying you? So you're doing business now?"

"Don't be disgusting," sniffs Jason.

"I think it's great. You should take it up a notch and join Tim at WE."

"Sure, I'll move back into the manor, too. Are my rubber duckies still there?"

"Enough," says Bruce. "Why are you here, Dick?"

Dick learned a long time ago not to be offended by Bruce's wording. _Why are you here?_ is his version of _What's up, can I help?_ “Can’t I just come visit my old man?” he says. He grins at Bruce's flustered look – next time Dick will call him 'Dad' and see what happens. It's Bruce's fault for going and adopting him at the tender young age of twenty-three. "How's the brat feeling?"

Two days back, Damian had been patrolling around Haysville for a routine check. It is one of "his" areas, even though half the time he is accompanied by Bruce or one of the girls. There had been talk for days of a possible revenge crime against a woman who had recently broken up with her boyfriend. Damian was watching for trouble on the balcony of a college lab – rather unfortunately the ideal vantage point – when there was an explosion from within, shattering the windows and sending him flying. GCPD suspected an accident or sabotage.

"Better," says Bruce. "He's insisting on not taking painkillers."

"I mean, he does try to emulate you."

Bruce looks unamused, and Dick bites back a chuckle and decides to get to the point. "Are any of my old tuxes still in my room?" It's not that he doesn't have tuxes at his apartment – he just needs one that's expensive enough to be obscene. He only took the essentials when he moved.

Jason perks at that, though he doesn't say anything.

"They should be in storage," says Bruce. "What's the occasion?"

"Infiltrating an exclusive club." Hacking into their mainframe, slipping his alias onto their guest list, and getting a copy of the invite card had been the easy part. It's getting the owners to spill their guts to him that will be difficult, not because it will require subtle manipulation, but because he'll be resisting the urge to dismember them. "I've traced a large human trafficking operation to a Gotham family, the Barringtons. They relocated to Blüdhaven fifteen years back. They offer 'receptionist' jobs in the US to women in Thailand, but when they get here they – "

"Take away their passports and sell them into sexual slavery," Jason interrupts, not leaning against the console anymore. "They often 'use' them at one of their clubs, the White Hart, but there's been no hard evidence to give the police so far."

Dick blinks at him. "How did you know that?"

"I've been working on that case for two months," says Jason, beginning to look defensive. "Dirtbags in Gotham have been buying from them." He scrubs a hand over his face. "I'd tell you to stay out of it, but that's like telling a pigeon to stop crapping on command."

"Don't go around flattering me; we mustn’t succumb to vanity, now." Dick has put in too much effort to give up on the case. Time for a compromise, because it is either that or risk alienating Jason, who is only starting to dip his toes back into the family. "We can work together."

"Yeah, no. I've filled my quota of working with Bats this year."

That makes Dick a little wistful. "It will be easier to gather evidence if we're both there." It is not exactly true, and he is not doing a stellar job of selling it.

Jason seems wary, and Dick wonders if he is thinking about their _last_ mission together, eight months ago, this catastrophe of a thing that still curls around his dreams. Bruce is looking at him too, and Dick can hear the cogs in his head turning.

Since the mission with Black Mask, Bruce has tried and failed to wheedle information out of both of them. He had taken one look at the report that Dick had typed, deleted, and typed again before submitting, and said, _This looks incomplete_.

 _It's all there is_ , Dick had lied. Talking about it would be like breathing with broken ribs. He cannot look at Bruce and say, _That thing with Blockbuster, it wasn't so simple, and it didn't end that night. It went on and on and I drank with her even though I don't drink and let her ride me and I kept talking about forensics and she said You're boring me, let's go another round._

And that is just the first half. He thought it was all buried and done, but then Black Mask extracted the information like a rotting tooth and threw it right in Dick's face.

It does not matter.

Finally Jason nods and grunts. He looks resigned. "I'm heading over to Blüdhaven on Sunday. We can swap details at your place."

"I'll comm you," Dick tells Jason, unnecessarily, already heading towards the stairs. "I'm gonna go see Dami and get my tux."

He is relieved to be out of the cave, away from them.

Damian is laid up in bed in his room, sketching, the tip of his tongue sticking out the way it does when he is concentrating fiercely. His left leg and arm are in a cast and he's got six stitches on his forehead and a lurid bruise on his jaw, but otherwise he seems mostly unharmed. Titus is curled at his feet and his ears flick when Dick comes in.

"You have got to stop giving me heart attacks," Dick says, sitting down over the covers and wiping at a charcoal stain on Damian's cheek with his thumb. "I have enough people trying to kill me." His tone is light, but when Bruce called just before dawn that day and started his sentence with "Damian", Dick had scrambled out of bed so fast he tripped over the rug and banged his chin against the floor.

And still it had been a near thing. If he had been standing a few feet back, or not managed to twist – 

Damian scowls at him, putting down his pencil. "I could not have predicted an explosion. Who the hell would think about targeting a no-name community college in – "

"Language."

" – one of Gotham's most run-down districts in the middle of the night when it's _empty_."

"Not impossible. I remember some dude setting fire to the locker room at Hudson over a football game. That's Gotham for you, and five for the swear jar."

"You are not Pennyworth."

"I can tell him."

"You wouldn't."

Dick ruffles his hair and Damian makes a noise like a disgruntled cat. He wants badly to pull him onto his lap, but even disregarding the injuries, Damian is getting heavy.

Damian asks if he is staying the night, and Dick says, "I'm staying for dinner." He had not planned to.

Jason is quiet during the meal, his features pinched, and Dick gets the feeling he is the reason; it cannot be easy for Jason to remain silent about what had happened. Dick makes up for it by being too cheerful and making too many jokes, and Bruce gives him a strange, uncertain look. Damian is oblivious to the atmosphere, feeding bits of cheese to Titus when he thinks no one is watching.

Dick drives back to Blüdhaven at 70 mph, and if he nearly crashes into a Hyundai, well, no one needs to know. When he drags himself to his apartment, he collapses on the couch, sticking his knuckles in his eyes. It is one of those times when he vaguely wishes he were a smoker, so he could light a cigarette and take a drag and feel the jitteriness drain out of him. 

***

Dick is setting his breakfast down on the table the next day when he notices the manila envelope on the ground, in front of the door.

It could not be his bills; those come in different envelopes and he's already paid them. He picks it up and flips it over, but there is no indication of who sent it to him, just his printed name and address. He rips it open and shakes out the contents.

There is broken glass in his lungs. He is not sure how the time flows – too short or too long. He sinks down on the floor on jelly legs, a thin, high ringing in his ears. He doesn't know which emotion to land on: rage or fear. It makes him nauseous, dizzy. The edges of his vision blur, and he blinks and shakes his head to try to remain focused. 

There are photographs. Of Robin. In various locations, crouching on a ledge, swinging from a line, standing with hand to his comm unit. Dick counts, fingers trembling. Four. No, five. Someone has been stalking Damian – pointedly when Batman was not around – and Damian never noticed.

The _rest_ of them didn't notice.

Whoever sent these has figured out that Dick Grayson is Nightwing, and they may or may not know that Damian Wayne is Robin. Dick puts a hand over his mouth, trying to calm himself, trying to move past the static in his brain. Why send these photos to him? Batman and Robin are known to be a duo – Nightwing may be part of the clan, but he doesn't work with Robin often enough for the average criminal to notice.

" _Fuck_ ," says Dick, fumbling for his comm link in his pocket to contact Damian. Every moment that passes makes his throat drier. Damian does have designated routes in Gotham – it would not be impossible to track them. And there are areas that get more of their attention. The Bats are not as invisible as they like to think they are; there are blurry photos of all of them except Red Hood and Oracle on the internet.

Damian answers after nearly fifteen seconds, and Dick barrels on without letting him get a word in edgeways. "Where are you right now?"

There is a pause, during which Dick clutches the comm link so hard he thinks it might break. " _The manor, where else would I be in this state?_ " Damian says, suspicion in his tone. " _Brown and Thomas_ _are attempting to coerce me into a pointless game called Monopoly._ _Do you require backup?_ "

"No. Are you all right?" He obviously is, but Dick needs to hear it.

" _What is this about?_ "

"Just answer the damn question."

" _I am well_."

"Good. Give the link to Steph."

" _You are concerning me –_ "

"Just give it to her."

Damian scoffs, but then there is the sound of shuffling and Stephanie's voice comes through. " _You should have stayed over; this game's no fun with three._ "

Dick checks his phone for messages or calls from unknown numbers. Nothing. "When you go out on patrol tonight, I need you and Tim to sweep the area around the lab that blew up. Let Cass take care of your rounds at the docks."

" _That is incredibly vague._ _What's happening?_ "

"Someone probably targeted Damian."

" _Which mob boss did he annoy this time?_ " she quips, but she sounds serious.

"I'll give you more to go on later. Let B know, and tell him I'll get in touch with him in a few hours. I'm going to find out what I can."

He knuckles down, tearing through his files and tracking everyone he's thrown in jail or pissed off in the past year. By the time he is done, it is nearing midnight. There are a lot of names, none of which fit the bill: some do not have the means, others aren't the sharpest pencils in the box.

Dick does not want to think about the conclusion he is reaching, but he has to.

He walks to the kitchen, takes a glass, and hurls it against the wall, watching it shatter. He hasn't done that since he was a kid. _I could be wrong_ , he thinks, looking dazed at the shards strewn like little icicles on the floor. He wants to be wrong.

When he comms Bruce, he stares at the photos in his hands like he can discern something new from them.

" _What have you got?_ "

"There's trouble. I don't have any evidence but I do have some ideas and they're not pretty." Dick knows he is babbling, but something about talking to Bruce – the length and depth of their friendship, the closeness filling the corners – gives him room to revert to a nervous twelve-year-old. Sometimes it is cathartic. At other times, like now, it is frustratingly pointless.

" _Nightwing_ ," Bruce says sharply, " _report_."

And this, this is what Dick needed – something solid that he can cling to, lean against. "Please tell me you are not putting Damian on duty till we figure this out," he says, a little desperately, the moment he is finished. "Catalina Flores is bad news."

" _He won't be patrolling, but_ _he can assist Oracle at the Clocktower_."

Dick slouches in his seat, momentarily relieved, turning his eyes to the ceiling. Then he frowns. " _Assist_ Oracle?"

" _He can watch her work_ ," Bruce amends.

Dick smiles, more out of nerves than amusement.

" _Could this be connected to the Sionis case?_ "

Dick had considered that. "Black Mask doesn't know my name, but Flores does, and he let her out. This isn't really his style, but it's better to be safe. Can you get Oracle's eyes on him?"

" _I'll do that_ , _and_ _we can set up cameras along some of our more common routes._ "

That should make Dick feel better, but it does not. The first brittle thing Damian had said to him swims into his mind: _Did you just save my life?_ That glimmer of faith had frightened Dick as much as it had warmed him, because in that moment Damian had stopped being just his Robin and started, in a weird, twisty way, being a mash-up of his child and his little brother. He had sporadically considered dismissing him, but Robin has a way of taking hold of you, and the cape remains woven into your skin long after you take it off. Damian had been no different.

" _Keep your eyes peeled in the meantime_ ," says Bruce. " _I'll inform the group about the situation_."

Dick nods, even though he knows Bruce can't see it. "10-4. Nightwing out."

He stares at the comm link in his hand, then closes his eyes and indulges in a moment of festering self-hatred. He does not often allow himself that – an interlude of not honouring Giovanni and Maria Grayson. His father would say, You keep hating yourself, and your responsibilities become chores and the people you love become objects you hoard. Dick would nod and look to his mother for respite.

He has put on his costume and is just realising he should probably eat something when Barbara contacts him. He slides on his boots and makes his bed as she talks.

" _It's...weird_." Dick can hear her fingers flying over the keyboard. " _Not that your detective skills are lacking, Boy Wonder, but there's nothing to suggest Tarantula would sink so low as to target a kid_. _Revenge, I can believe, but not like this_."

Dick cannot vocally disagree, but he cannot agree either, so he settles for, "I'm counting on you."

" _I'm not excusing her, but she's never targeted kids before. It just seems unlike her to do something so depraved_." Her next pause is damning. " _You sure there's no info you've forgotten to give us?_ "

"I'm sure." He is not lying. He did not forget.

Dubiousness colours her silence. She wishes him good night and tells him to sleep.

He clambers through the window and shoots out a line, the cold air nestling into his lungs.

***

Dick should have expected the Skype call.

"What is this nonsense?" Damian demands as soon as Dick clicks the green button. The effect is somewhat ruined by his voice cracking. Even through the grainy screen Dick can see that his cheeks are more defined, his brow stronger. "I am not a _child_ , Grayson."

"I didn't say you were, but good point. You're fourteen, that's like, fresh out of the womb."

"I have had everyone from lechers in pig masks to my grandfather trying to kill me," Damian snaps. "How is this any different?"

Something black and bitter expands beneath Dick's ribs and makes it hard to breathe. He tries to explain, but the words tie themselves into a knot and get stuck in his throat. Damian is _fourteen_ and someone, probably Catalina Flores, has taken candid photos of him and made an attempt on his life. Part of him insists, _She would never hurt him, he's a **kid**_. Another is not convinced. "Because we don't know who they are or what they want, and they were good enough to evade all of us."

"We are detectives, uncertainty is part of our job." Damian looks away. "This would never have been done to you," he mutters, surly.

Dick barks a startled laugh. "Please, if I wasn't grounded I was fired."

"The point is this is ridiculous." He chews his lip. "I thought you trusted me," he says quietly, and he doesn't sound resentful anymore, just small and ashamed, his shoulders creeping up.

Dick's heart clenches. "I do trust you," he tells him gently. "But someone has it in for you and you need to lie low till we figure it out. You can still work on cases."

"But I won't be on the ground," says Damian, frustrated. "What if that takes months?"

"I doubt it will take that long."

Damian disconnects the call.

Dick leans back in his chair with a soft groan.

He does not have proof, but this is nailed to the palms of his hands – it is unrelated to Bruce, to anyone else responsible for Damian. He can feel it in his gut.

Dick has stumbled, with Damian. He failed him when he was unable to save him and he's failing him now, and he doesn't know what to do about it, he doesn't know how to approach his mistakes because they seem like things that are inherent to him and not just miscalculations that he can analyse and circumvent in the future.

The beginning of his patrol that night is uneventful, which Dick should be grateful for but cannot appreciate; he wishes he could focus on something that would make him stop thinking about Damian's face shrouded by the Robin cape. He intercepts a man trashing a grocery store, rescues a cat from a window ledge that thanks him by leaving claw marks on his cheek, and retrieves a kite from a railing for a kid who runs off without a word the moment he hands it to her.

It's pushing two in the morning by the time he hits something that actually does piss him off.

"Vandalising a mosque?" he says, snapping the knife the man had tried to pull on him beneath his boot. "Pretty low even for Blüdhaven. You affiliated with a group, or decided to climb this trash heap alone?"

He expects the man – late thirties, buzz-cut, cheeks and beefy neck blotched pink – to resist, or to try to run. He does not expect him to wheeze out a laugh and say, "Don't think a pretty boy like you should be out getting involved in matters of state."

Dick raises his eyebrows dryly. He is used to being underestimated (it can work to his advantage), but there is something about the wording that is especially patronising, like the man is talking to a toddler. "I've been involved in a lot more than you could wrap your head around," he says, irritated. "Now why don't you make this easier for yourself and tell me what I want to know?"

There is that laugh again, scratchy and grating. "You really think you got something going for you. Tarantula didn't care that you flip around like you own this city, and she was right."

Dick goes still. "Say that again."

"Everyone knows now, Nightwing. You're Tarantula's little toy, you couldn't even – "

Dick walks up to him and grasps him by the lapels of his jacket. "I don't know what you heard or from who, but if you think you get a free pass from me, you've got another thing coming."

The man grins. "Don't need a free pass from you. All I need to do is call you baby and you'll be down on your knees."

This will not do. Dick has already disarmed him and gotten up in his face, and the man is carrying on like nothing happened.

"She's back, you know," the man continues. "Heard she's taking care of some gang business in the West Side. You'll be caught in her web again soon enough." Another laugh. "Or someone else's. Word gets around."

Dick swears a blue streak that would have made Deathstroke raise his eyebrows. The high-profile criminals – Joker and Two-Face and the like – are not afraid of vigilantes either way, so they will carry on as usual. But the shadier ones, the more numerous ones, the drug dealers and rapists and child traffickers – they will get bolder. Dick will have to find a way to suppress the oncoming shitstorm.

And this not-rumour is going to reach Bruce soon enough, if it does not show up on Barbara's radar first.

His mind races. His suit is too tight, his skin itchy and hot. Black Mask found out months ago – has this kind of talk been stewing underground since then, or is it new?

He supposes it makes no difference.

Dick lets go and twists the man's arm behind his back till he howls. "Who told you about Tarantula's whereabouts?"

"People have been talking!" the man snarls.

"Since when?"

"I don't know! My buddy was going on about it a week ago."

"Then you'll tell me your buddy's name and location."

"No way," the man sniffs, puffing out his chest. "I ain't a rat."

"Yeah, that's you, mister honourable, Sir Nazi of the Blüdhaven Shire. Talk before I make you."

The man breathes like a rhinoceros for a few seconds, and then says, "I hear Batman hits harder than you."

Dick considers knocking his teeth down his throat, and immediately feels guilty about it. Is he really that petty?

"Gotta wonder why Bats kept a pansy like you around. Maybe you kept up his morale, eh."

It is odd, how some words make you drift back. Dick blinks and he is in the youth centre. Second night. Older boys crowding him. Floor cold, grit on his cheek. _Only way you're getting taken in is if some guy decides he wants an exotic little bitch boy to suck his cock. Aww, do you miss mommy? Was she a little whore like you?_

He slams the heel of his palm into the man's nose, breaking it. "I hit hard enough," he says.


	2. Chapter 2

Even after an interrogation, Dick does not get far, and is eventually forced to abandon his search for Tarantula in favour of the Barrington case. He does not report the vandal and his circle of goons; they'll just be bailed within a week. He can only hope that bloodying them up a bit and burning the copies of their creepy manifesto gave them enough incentive to not go in that direction again.

It is 9.02 in the morning and Dick is putting out months-old ginger cookies and chips when Jason arrives. He is cocooned in the air of a man who believes he is unwelcome, his movements wooden, his face a little too blasé. Dick says, "I've got bisacodyl if you need it."

Jason bites the inside of his cheek much too slowly to suppress the twitch of his lips. He puts his briefcase on the table. "7.5 FK Brno. 2000 fps with a 103-gr., .30-cal. bullet. Think you can dodge that?"

Success.

Between the grainy footage, photographs, voice recordings, and trace evidence they have amalgamated, they have plenty to go on.

The men they want are Montgomery "Monty" Barrington and Sylvester Barrington. Cousins, both in their fifties. Monty used to dabble in the drug trade before he joined Sylvester in sex trafficking. He would oversee the test rounds, which were done on people around Gotham's East Side, including Crime Alley.

Jason lounges on Dick's couch, cracks open a Coke and says, "This one's mine."

Dick nods, his eyes glued to a photograph of Sylvester. The one who initiated the trafficking operation. Prior to that, he made his money through weapons smuggling and entertained himself by engaging in sex tourism in South-East Asia. Apparently he got inspired for his new line of work by videos of underage Thai girls that were circulated in Europe and North America.

"If you see an article in the papers about these sons of bitches getting their hands cut off, don't expect me to feel bad about it," Jason says with distaste.

Dick pries the Coke from him and takes a long swig. He does not have the brain space to take the bait.

Jason makes a face when Dick hands it back. "Ugh, germs, man."

"Oh, sorry, did I get my cooties all over your can?"

"Are you always this annoying?"

"Nah, I make an extra effort for you."

Jason throws a pillow at him, grinning. It is a near childlike thing, eyes crinkling, teeth tugging his lower lip as though he is trying to stop himself from showing his amusement. He had smiled like that, when Dick bought him ice cream, the corner of his mouth smeared with chocolate.

"Rude," says Dick, in a puddle of affection.

It should seem wrong, this shard of levity in the morass of a case like this – but Dick feels something in him lighten.

They get Barbara to handle their fake IDs. By the time the night of the infiltration arrives, Dick is reasonably confident about the process, but every time he thinks of it he cannot disentangle it from _her_.

"Don't be an ass, Grayson," he hisses to himself. "Just do the damn job." The concealer caked on his face is a couple of shades lighter than his skin tone, and he has dyed his hair a nondescript brown.

"You up for this?" Jason says, leaning against the bathroom doorframe with his arms crossed.

Dick knows he is only being considerate, but something about being asked annoys him. "Yes," he says, unable to keep the bite from his tone, fiddling with his tie. He has re-knotted it three times and it is still not falling the way he wants.

Jason narrows his eyes. "Excuse me for being concerned. I'll leave that to Tim next time."

"Are you concerned for me, or the case?" Dick knows that isn't fair the moment it leaves his mouth.

"They're not mutually exclusive. Also, wow, fuck you very much."

Dick pinches the space between his brows. "I'm sorry," he says. "That was low." He smoothes his trousers even though there isn't any need to. "I've just been kind of frazzled." 

"That's why I _asked_."

"I know how to compartmentalise."

Jason looks hard at him.

"It won't be like last time," Dick snaps.

"How can you promise that?"

Dick reminds himself that Jason is being reasonable. "Because there's too much at stake. I already know how this is going to affect me, so I'm ready for it."

Jason looks away and says, "Okay."

The drive to the club mid-town is quiet and tense. Dick doesn't know where Jason got the slick black Mercedes, and he's not about to ask.

"What's Oracle got on Sionis?" Jason says.

Dick fidgets with his cuff links. "Nothing outside the usual. No False Facers or any of his other lackeys around Haysville in the past two months." It makes enough sense; Catalina has no affinity for teamwork.

They park the car by the sidewalk and head towards a restaurant called Rue Montorgueil in a narrow, ill-lit alley, with a striped awning and a closed sign. Jason stops by the door and makes a short, sweeping gesture with his hands. "Age before beauty."

"Har de har," intones Dick, and twists the knob.

Inside, a rotund man with pockmarked cheeks and a ridiculous handlebar mustache is sitting on a stool by the counter, typing on his phone. Dick gets a feeling the fellow thinks he looks like a Frenchman.

The man looks up and flaps a hand at them. "We're closed. Can't you read?"

"In Hartford, Hereford and Hampshire, hurricanes hardly happen," declares Dick, flashing the invitations and his most winning smile. He had rechecked the password twice before they left.

The man takes the invites and peruses them. "Ryeka Johnson and Todd Peters?"

" _That's what it says on the cards, you bastard_ ," Dick replies in French.

The man scowls at him, then asks for their IDs, which they produce, and then they're slipping through a backdoor that leads to a narrow staircase with no windows – they have to go one at a time. Dick wonders if the women were taken up the same staircase, led up in a single file, if they looked at the unpainted cement walls and felt dizzy because there was nothing to break the stretch of grey.

They are stopped at the landing by a security guard who for some reason is wearing dark glasses and who pats them down and ushers them in. Inside, the lights glow bluepurplepink and the air is hazy with cigar smoke. All the seats are taken. The bartenders are men in shirts and bowties, but every server is female, every one of them smiling with their teeth showing, every one of them a smidge too subservient to be genuine. Their dresses barely cover their bottoms, and within seconds Dick catches more than one man copping a feel.

"There's Monty," whispers Jason, nodding towards a balding man in a suit two sizes too small at a table. "See you later," he says, and goes, and Dick, for a moment, sees a fifteen-year-old boy walking into a warehouse.

Dick heads to the bar and grabs a screwdriver that he has no intention of drinking, and sets off to find his target. He recognises some faces – one of Riddler's former men, a business partner of the Penguin, and an up-and-coming mob boss that Dick had hitherto given little thought. His teeth click. No matter how many of these infiltrations he does, he always feels the same – like he is in a hole in the dirt bristling with insects.

He spots Sylvester in a corner, breaking off from a group of laughing men and reaching into his pocket to check his phone. He switches his mic on under the guise of fixing his tie, takes a breath, and throws his arms wide. "Sylvester!" he says heartily, beaming. "How _are_ you? Is your sister still taking Italian classes? Victoria, right?"

Sylvester looks up, not even trying to keep the surprise and confusion from his face. "She is." He gives an uncertain, almost imperceptible smile. "I don't think I've seen you in a while."

 _Got him_ , thinks Dick. Sylvester belongs to a class of criminals who never check their own guest lists or even know who's on it beyond the big names – they have lackadaisical underlings do it for them. "You don't remember me," he says, pouting and making himself sound like a distant relative who's mock-offended you don't recall his name. "But you were drunk as a skunk, so I don't blame you. It was at the Mermaid's Tail. We talked for _hours_ , man."

An unpleasant grin peels across Sylvester's face, and he tucks his phone back in his pocket. "I'll bet we did," he says. "Sure you weren't looking to get one of my girls at a cheaper price?"

"Wouldn't _dream_ of it," Dick says. "After all the trouble you went through to ship them all the way from Asia."

Sylvester looks pleased at that, like he thinks it's honest work he gets to enjoy complaining about. "You have no idea," he says. Dick is about to ask him about all his hardships in setting up illegal offices in Phuket when Sylvester snaps his fingers at a girl carrying a tray. She freezes, then slinks towards them, trying to keep the nervousness from her smile. "These girls," Sylvester says, putting an arm around her waist, "they like strong American men. Isn't that right?"

The girl's smile widens, but her eyes are those of a trapped animal.

"What's your name, sweetheart?" Dick says.

"Maddie," she blurts immediately, like she'd rehearsed it and had been waiting for someone to ask.

"They use normal names," Sylvester says approvingly, running his hand up and down her back. "Better for the clients."

Dick raises his glass. "Hear, hear!"

"And let me tell you," Sylvester says, "they can go for _hours_. Can't you, honey?" He grasps her chin and shakes her face a little, like she is five.

Dick keeps himself calm by imagining sawing off Sylvester's penis with a metal ruler. From the corner of his eye, he sees Jason walking away with Monty and disappearing into the crowd. He opens his mouth to get Sylvester to say something useful, when a hand falls on his shoulder and a thinly familiar voice says, "Didn't expect to see you here, baby."

He is staggered by her perfume before he sees her face.

She has chopped her hair into a pixie cut and coloured it blue, but he cannot mistake her for someone else. Catalina's lips are painted fuchsia, and they stretch in a Cheshire smile.

Dick doesn't know how well he is keeping his blandly entertained expression on.

"Mariana, darling," Sylvester says, kissing her on both cheeks. "I didn't know you two were acquainted."

Dick had seen her name on the guest list. Mariana Fajardo. He'd known, he'd _known_ her middle name is Marie and he hadn't made the connection.

Amateurish. _Stupid_.

Catalina's smile grows sharper, and Dick's stomach drops. "We have a long history."

"Tell me, uh...I didn't get your name?" says Sylvester.

"Ryeka."

"Ryeka – that's unusual – you can't tell me you let a woman as beautiful as this get away."

A hysterical laugh bubbles in Dick's chest. There is a quality of unreality that has permeated the world.

Catalina says, "Oh, Sylvie," and places a manicured hand on Sylvester's arm. They are as long and knotty as they were those years ago, when they parted his thighs and curled into his hair. "You should tell him. Go on. Tell him how much better off he'd be with me."

"You'd be much better off with her," Sylvester says obligingly. The server appears relieved at not being the topic of conversation any longer.

Dick is wondering how to get Sylvester to himself when Sylvester's phone rings and he answers it, lifting a finger to the rest of them. "Yeah, Danny? Course I'm here. Oh? Give me a minute. I gotta take this," he says, and then he is gone, and Dick is left standing beneath the pulsing lights. The girl scrambles away towards the bar.

Catalina turns to him. "Darling, what did you do to your face?" she says, tone mocking, reaching up as though to cup his cheek.

He bats her hand away. "Why are you here?"

"Isn't it obvious? I'm doing what you and the other goody-two-shoes can't." She scoffs. "Trust you to show up here, of all the places on earth, of all the days in the year."

His brain screeches to a halt. "You're here to stop them?"

"Obviously." Catalina tilts her head to the side. "The likes of you aren't going to do anything more useful than 'gather evidence'."

Dick searches her face, her voice, for a lie. He finds none. "Oh my God, are you fucking shitting me right now?"

She seems confused. "Why would I be?"

Dick puts a hand over his face. He has a headache. "You – no, this is exactly something you'd do. I never understood you, not even a little, and that was my mistake."

"Your mistake," Catalina says, poking his chest with a finger, "was breaking my heart. We were doing so well, we could have been so happy, and then you went and decided I was a criminal."

"You killed people." _You did more than that._

"You let me."

"I'd have gone to jail," Dick says. "I'd have done it happily. Someone strong-armed me out of it." He is not dropping Amy's name here.

Catalina looks angry now. "You should have been in there, not me. At least I stick to my code. You say one thing and do another and you don't even suffer the consequences, just hide behind your daddy."

"So you thought you'd take a shot at me, go down the Blockbuster route. Why go after Robin?"

She crosses her arms. "You seemed to be a bit of a softie for kids, back then at least. Figured you like to coddle the baby of the brood."

All his feelings are red. "He's barely into his _teens_ and he hasn't done a damn thing to you."

"You betrayed me," she snarls. "I would sit there in my cell thinking of – "

"I don't care," says Dick curtly. He is tired. Of her, of the way she settles over everything in his life like dust.

And then Jason's voice comes piercing in.

"Johnson? I'm beat, let's skedaddle – " Jason cuts off, his gaze flickering between Dick and Catalina and slowly spiralling from confused to comprehending to murderous.

"Who's this?" Catalina looks at Dick. "You didn't tell me you were into men."

"Catalina Flores," Jason says tightly, and it is as though he has spoken a full sentence – a condemnation and a threat folded into one. He does it better than Bruce.

On most people, the effect would have been devastating. Catalina just turns to Jason, full of eagerness. "Oh, Ri _ca_ rdo, you've talked about me." Jason has a look on his face like he just stepped in fresh excrement. "Did he say how we were nearly married?"

Dick closes his eyes, wills himself to batter down the poisonous thing rising in his chest.

"He didn't," Jason grits out.

"Oh, you should have seen him," Catalina sighs, leaning on Dick and grasping his arm. Dick cannot shake her off without getting people to stare, and eyes on them is the last thing they need. "Poor puppy was so nervous. He got us a hotel room, just because I was cold. He was _so_ good to me."

Jason's hands twitch by his thighs, where his guns are usually holstered.

"Peters," Dick manages, "go."

"You a cape?" says Catalina.

Jason is baring his teeth, but he is not smiling. "Wouldn't go that far."

"I have this," Dick says, more forcefully, stepping between them.

"I'm not leaving you with her."

" _Go_ , Peters. This is my problem. I want to deal with it."

Jason hesitates, and then huffs and stalks away, throwing one last glare at Catalina.

Dick's turns to her, and his lip curls. "Wouldn't have taken you for the sort who gives a crap about things like this."

"Don't club me in with these bastards. I don't rent girls out for funsies."

Dick does not know which is the worse option: that she doesn't realise, or that she's denying it. All the words he thought he'd say to her when – if – he met her again dissolve into murky half-concepts, and he is stuck staring at her, the beat of the club music oddly loud and oddly strong, thrumming through him.

He takes a step towards her, in her space, and he is not comfortable but neither is she and that is what matters. "You're sick, Catalina. Don't come near me. Stay out of Blüdhaven. Stay out of Gotham."

"Because you own them, right? You and Batman, egos bigger than the cities."

"And another thing."

She looks at him with disdain.

"Touch a hair on Robin's head again and I will cut the backs of your heels." It's worth it just to see the shock and fear in her eyes, to give a measurable threat. Even if it sickens him a little, if it means keeping Damian safe, he will say it a thousand times over.

He is considering how to get her to beat it when the fire alarm blares and a shower of water blasts over them.

That could work.

 _Nice job, Jason_ , Dick thinks, amid the screams, as people start fretting over their clothes and hair and pouring out. He drops his glass at Catalina's feet and does not look back.


	3. Chapter 3

They play the confession that Jason had wrung out of Monty in Dick's apartment. Dick's teeth ache from how hard he is clenching his jaw.

_"One of 'em got away, tried to tell the police, and they said she was lying." Laughter. "Serves her right. They wanna come to America, you bring 'em here, and then they wanna leave."_

"If I had my gun, I'd have killed him and all the other scum in the room," says Jason. "I wouldn't have regretted it."

Dick is silent. He disagrees. He also understands. "We'll make two copies for safekeeping. I'll deliver the original one to Captain Rohrbach, unless you'd rather do it – it is your work."

"I'm not touching the BPD with a ten-foot pole."

Dick isn't thrilled about seeing them either.

Amy's face is white and her hands are in fists by the time the recording ends.

Dick hands her the pen drive. "Find them and kick them out if you haven't done it already," he says grimly, shooting out a line. "I don't care how understaffed you are." He knows they are still there – he checked – but he cannot let Amy know he hacked into their system. Has to remain in her good graces.

Which is why he adds, "Do your best to make sure those traffickers are locked up for the rest of their lives and the women given proper care. If you don't, I have it on good authority those scumbags are going to have bullets lodged in their skulls, and I'm not certain I'll be able to stop it."

When he joined the BPD, he had been glad – happy, even – that he could weed out corrupt officers and help swerve the department towards something resembling competence. Right now, that he had anything to do with them at all makes him feel unclean.

That same night, the two officers who had turned away the victim are found dangling from the roof of one of Blüdhaven's tallest buildings, wearing only their underpants. A crane has to be brought in to help.

It is a lot less than they deserve.

"That wasn't acceptable," Amy tells him two days after, when he is wrapping up an investigation at the harbour.

"Don't," says Dick lowly. "You do not want to go down that route with me right now."

Amy's face is a mix of mortified and stubborn. "I'll let you off this time, but don't try it again."

Dick leaves without a word.

***

A week later, he comes back to his apartment after work and finds the curtains closed and Batman sitting at the coffee table. He is not glaring, or working, just ramrod straight and still, and despite the lenses Dick can tell he is staring blankly.

Dick shuts the door and checks his phone for the first time that day: twelve missed calls from Tim, three from Barbara, one from Alfred. Damian was probably spared the information, he thinks with some relief. There are several unread messages too. He opens the one from an unknown number sent early in the afternoon: _Brace yourself._ _– J_

Too late, Dick thinks, grimacing.

"At least take off the cowl," he says, hanging his keys on the wall.

Bruce, surprisingly, does so without a moment's hesitation, as though he had been waiting to, and his face is not angry or disdainful, the way Dick had thought it would be. Instead, it is devastated in a hollow sort of way, makes him think of a field razed to the earth. There are dark rings beneath his eyes and stubble smeared over his jaw. He appears old, tired. "Dick," he says.

Dick swallows dryly. He had scribbled an entire page about what he would say to Bruce, wondered which way they would swing: angry and yelling, or upset and yelling. But now that Bruce is here he only stands there, humiliation hardening his veins and his throat clogging up.

"The others wanted to come as well. I told them not to."

"I need a shower."

"What?"

"I just came back after twelve hours of teaching kids gymnastics, I am not talking to you like this." It is an excuse and Bruce probably knows that; they have had uncomfortable conversations covered in alien guts and bile.

Dick takes his time, letting the water scald him and scrubbing himself till he's sure he's stripped an entire layer of dead skin off. He comes out feeling a little less ill but no less tired and no more prepared to deal with whatever is coming. He sits cross-legged on a chair in a pair of clean sweatpants and an old T-shirt and says, "Right."

Bruce is rubbing his temples. "You." He shakes his head. "I'm...sorry if I made you feel as though you couldn't talk to me."

Dick does not breathe.

"I don't know how we got here," Bruce says, and his fists curl and uncurl in jerky, spasmodic movements, "but I know it's on me. I wasn't there for you when you needed me most."

"I didn't tell you," Dick croaks. "Not your fault." He doesn't realise he is crying till Bruce gets up and puts his knuckles against his cheek.

The proximity is too much; it makes him feel raw, cracked open from the stomach.

Gloved fingers card through his hair and press his forehead to plated armour.

He realises he had not allowed himself to want this – not since he was a teenager. Bruce did not have a schedule that was on the dot, but it was measurable: his night shift began around eleven and ended around four. It was Dick's second month of being Robin and he was stuck inside with a sprained ankle. The clock had struck four, then four thirty, then five, and Alfred was still asleep, and Bruce had not come. Dick had curled up on the floor of the Batcave, staring at the time on the computer screen. He counted the seconds and thought of his parents' sparkling, brand-new costumes and their skulls caved in like pomegranates, the music still beating a jaunty tune.

When the car rolled in at six and Bruce spilled out, blood clotted beneath his nose, Dick had thrown himself at him with the intention to hug him, but found himself beating him with his fists and screaming _I hate you, you said you'd be back on time and you're late, you don't care if you die, you don't care about me._

Later, he had been embarrassed at the show of his own desperation, his irrationality, in front of a man who was still a near stranger.

"Oh, chum," Bruce is murmuring. His arms are wound tightly around Dick. "You didn't deserve that. You know that, right?"

"I know." Saying it makes him feel frail, like his bones are hollow.

Bruce drops a kiss into his hair. "Come here." He helps Dick stand up and manoeuvres him towards the sofa, sitting down and pulling Dick on top of him. Dick squirms, trying to curl up and ending up tangling their legs. "I'm too heavy," he says, frustrated. For some reason, that makes him want to cry harder, the idea that he, a grown man, is too big to sit on Bruce's lap.

"You're never too heavy for your dad," says Bruce, rubbing slow circles into his back.

"I was afraid you'd think I was weak," Dick whispers. "I know you're not that kind of man, but I was afraid you'd think that, and pity me, like I was some kind of – "

"I could never think you're weak," Bruce says. The fierceness of his tone makes Dick lose his train of thought. "And I could never pity you. Do you hear me?"

Dick screws his eyes shut, his nose squished against Bruce's shoulder.

"Tell me what you need."

Dick is afraid to say it, to offer a chance to go back to what they used to be and meet refusal. "I want you to stay."

Bruce nods. "I'll take the couch."

"No."

Dick puts a second glass of water on the bedside table and hands Bruce a pair of oversized slacks he'd received as a birthday gift from a coworker and never worn. "There are no dust mites," Dick says when he catches Bruce eyeing the sheets dubiously. "I'm sorry, I don't have an extra toothbrush – "

"I'll live."

Dick falls asleep with Bruce's chin tucked over his head. It is too warm and a bit sweaty and Bruce's arm is heavy over his waist but he does not shift away. When he wakes up he is alone and the other side of the bed is cold, but when he emerges muzzily from the room he finds Bruce nursing a cup at the table. Bruce looks at him and says, "This coffee is terrible."

"Not all of us have Alfreds to go buy fresh beans imported from Colombia."

"You don't have to settle for this," Bruce makes a face, "cardboard juice, either."

"Don't be a snob. I'm hungry. You okay with omelettes?"

Bruce puts down the coffee. "You should stay at the manor."

"Like hell," says Dick, suddenly very awake.

Bruce dips his head, narrowing his eyes. "You are in no emotional state to – "

"I am not dealing with everyone hounding me over there. I need space."

"You need your family."

"Bruce, I love you all, but I won't be able to handle all the questions and the looks." He is in no mood to give each individual a run-down of what happened, or address them as a group, which would feel weird and formal.

"And how do you plan to control the rise of violent crime in a city that already runs you ragged?"

Dick takes a fortifying breath and starts to count to ten. He gets to three before biting out, "Drink your coffee. I'm making breakfast."

Bruce presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. His shoulders hike. It is a rare moment of vulnerability, of peeling Batman from his own fabric. Dick thinks it must hurt.

He goes over and puts his arms around Bruce's neck. "I know you want to fix this," he says into coarse curls, "and I appreciate that. I'm so happy you're here." He plants a fierce kiss on Bruce's bristly cheek. "But I just need some time."

Bruce takes a breath, says, "Dick, I – I would appreciate it if you would – "

"I get it. I do. You're worried. Please, just...please."

There is a silence, and Bruce...crumbles. "All right." He nods. "All right."

***

Dick has patrolled for over a fortnight and has (even with Barbara's help) neither been able to track Tarantula nor heard of any activity. He expected it, but it does not help him sleep any easier. The Blüdhaven underworld is beginning to burgeon; it is going to be a while before it goes back to its regularly scheduled degeneracy, if ever. There has already been a minor spike in reported petty crimes (which he does not care about) and muggings (which he does).

It is going to get worse. Dick starts wondering if he should have taken on his own protégé, back when he moved here.

He is shoveling Chinese takeout into his mouth and checking the security footage around a hotel he suspects is being used for storing THC cartridges for the black market when there is a heavy _rap-tap_. He looks up and nearly drops his fork.

Jason is perched on the fire escape outside the window, mask on but no helmet. Dick hurries over and yanks it open. "Don't mind the front door; it's there for decoration," he says.

"You're Old People, aren't you," replies Jason, awkward and stilted, eyebrows raised in an attempt to look wry.

"Huh?"

Jason holds up a rain-speckled plastic bag of what seems to be two small tubs of ice cream. His hair is starting to fluff up as it dries. "Bruce told me," he says, "when he was being weirdly emotional. You know how he does that sometimes. Said that you wanted to take me out for ice cream again."

"I never said that," Dick tells him, mostly out of surprise.

"I got you ice cream. You were supposed to pay."

"Why was I supposed to pay?"

"Eldest son privilege. You want me to freeze out here?"

Dick stands back and Jason clambers inside, dripping water all over the floor. Jason puts the ice cream on the table, plastic and all, and throws himself onto the couch, stretching out and removing his mask. Dick is so bewildered he can't even feel peeved.

"You did not come here just to chill with me," he says. The footage is still playing on his laptop. He pauses it.

Jason sits up and takes out one of the ice cream tubs, along with a wooden spoon. "You need help," he says, opening it and digging in.

"Excuse you?"

"I mean around Blüdhaven. But yeah, you need a therapist too."

"Pot. Kettle. Black." Then Dick's brain registers what Jason said.

Jason must pick up on it because he says, "I'm here to assist you, temporarily. Not with the backlogs, you can take care of that shit yourself – the big stuff."

"...Because?"

"Don't act dumb, it doesn't suit you, world's _second-_ best detective. People are talking. It already took you a long time to chase the city's brave young men into their basements, and now they're crawling out."

Dick sits down next to him. He opens his own ice cream and takes a big bite despite the fact that he hasn't finished dinner. Butter pecan. He hides his pleasant surprise, because it might make Jason backtrack. "So what is this?" he says after the brain-freeze has subsided.

Jason shrugs. "An alliance. A partnership. Call it what you want." He scrapes the bottom of his tub with his spoon. "I'm not asking."

Dick hums and says, "I assume you'll be staying low."

"No offence, but if I'm seen with you too often _I'll_ lose my intimidation factor and Gotham can't afford that."

"What was that about you having filled your quota of working with Bats?"

Jason grimaces. "Okay, maybe I spoke too soon." He puts his now-empty tub back on the table. "You can accept that I'm going to be here or fight me. You don't want to fight me." _I don't want to fight you_ , Dick can hear.

He holds out his hand.

"What are you doing?" Jason says, looking baffled.

"Let's shake. We're beginning a new chapter."

"You want a pinky promise, too?"

"Not necessary, but nice all the same."

Later, Dick will sew stitches across Jason's shoulder blade, and they will conduct a stakeout at the edge of a roof, and Dick will find out that Jason likes his pancakes thin and drenched in blueberry syrup and wish that he had known it earlier, even though it is a trifling point. Now, he looks at Jason's face, at the earnestness lurking between the lines of tension and reticence.

"You're going to drive me insane, aren't you," says Jason, and reaches out.

-end-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 💫 lilaclotuses.tumblr.com 💖
> 
> And our fabulous new zine about Bruce & Dick: https://dynamicduozine.tumblr.com/


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